Page 135 of Offside Angle

Then he drops onto the bench and the moment is gone.

The final minutes are tense but controlled. Vanguard pushes hard, trying to claw something back, but the Reapers collapse around Shane and refuse to give them clean looks. When the horn finally sounds, the score is in their favor.

They’ve won Game 4.

The celebration is immediate. Players pour over the boards, gloves and sticks raised. I stay behind the glass, capturing everything — Elias yelling with pure joy, Cole and Viktor slamming into each other, Matteo getting mobbed by the rookies. The Vancouver crowd is already filing out, the building deflating around the noise of the Reapers’ bench.

I lower the camera for a second and just watch them.

We’re barely through the door of the hotel room before Matteo is on me.

We’re supposed to be packing. We have a flight back to Ravensburg in a few hours and the team is already starting to move. But Matteo doesn’t seem to care. The second the door clicks shut behind us, he pins me hard against the wall, mouth crashing into mine.

The kiss is messy and hungry and full of leftover adrenaline. I can feel him smiling against my lips even as he deepens it, one hand already sliding down between us to yank at my belt.

“Fuck, I needed that win,” he mutters against my mouth as he works the buckle open. “Needed to feel good about something. And now I get to come back here and do this to you.”

He gets the belt undone and pops the button of my jeans, shoving his hand inside without hesitation. I let out a sharp breath against his mouth, my hands finding his waist to steady myself as he presses closer.

“You’re in a mood,” I manage, though it comes out more like a groan.

Matteo laughs, and bites at my bottom lip. “I’m in a winning mood,” he corrects, stroking me through my underwear. “And I’ve been thinking about your cock in my mouth since the second period.”

He drops to his knees right there against the wall, looking up at me with that cocky, flushed expression that still somehow manages to wreck me every time.

“Can I?” he asks, even though his hands are already tugging my jeans down. “Teach me. Right now.”

I look down at him on his knees, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline and want, and I almost just let him do whatever he wants.

Almost.

“Alright,” I say. I reach down and cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “But you listen. You don’t rush. You do exactly what I tell you. Understood?”

Matteo nods quickly, already leaning in.

“Words, cariño.”

“Understood,” he says, a little breathless.

I free myself from my underwear and stroke myself once, watching his eyes track the movement. His throat works as he swallows.

“Open,” I instruct softly.

He does. The second the head of my cock brushes his tongue, his eyes go wide and he makes a small, startled sound in the back of his throat — like he wasn’t fully prepared for the weight or the heat of it. His hands come up to rest on my thighs, his fingers flexing.

I have to bite back a groan.

“Easy,” I murmur, carding my fingers through his hair. “Just get used to it. Breathe through your nose.”

Matteo nods around me, the movement clumsy and earnest. He tries to take more and immediately has to pull back a little, his eyes watering slightly as he adjusts. The sight of him— cocky, confident Matteo Rivera looking almost shy with his mouth full — hits me harder than I expect.

“Good,” I praise. “Just like that. Use your tongue. Slowly.”

He does, tentative at first, then a little bolder. When he accidentally takes me deeper than he meant to and gags softly, he looks up at me with this wide, almost apologetic expression that nearly undoes me completely.

I have to tighten my grip on his hair to keep myself from thrusting.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my control slipping for a second. “You’re going to kill me.”